


let the fire burn on

by crossing_wires



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Extremely slow build, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Minor Violence, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossing_wires/pseuds/crossing_wires
Summary: Cassandra is quite aware of where her own interests lie, and it is with men. Tall men preferably, who will send her flowers and read poetry to her and woo her like the girls in the tales she loved as a child. She wants someone to make her feel precious, someone who will treat her with the delicacy she sees reserved for girls who are blooming into women, for the girls who wear skirts, who curtsy and giggle and smile so prettily. It embarrasses her,  but Cassandra knows what she wants. She tries for a moment to image Scout Harding attempting to sweep her off her feet and nearly snorts at the image.
Or
Cassandra Pentaghast is not falling in love. She's not.





	

Cassandra has long realized that being a Seeker of Truth isn't all that much about seeking. Instead, she has spent most of her life fighting, waiting, and especially watching. Watching for signs, for signals, for the tilt of a head towards another, for a meeting of eyes, a connection, another piece of a puzzle that she is continuously putting together. 

The Iron Bull had mentioned it to her once over a bottle of rum. "Most people," he'd said, "watch other people because they like them, or because they hate them, or because they're curious. You watch people like you're trying to see inside them, see what makes them tick."

She had never thought about it before, but she understands what he means. She sits outside in the shade and safety of Skyhold's walls, and she watches. She sees the way that Dorian meets the Inquisitor's eyes with the faintest blush as they pass each other at the door of the tavern, sees the way that the mage lights up when a runner later delivers him a bouquet of flowers from a mysterious source. She sees how Krem hits Bull just a little bit harder during training on some days, sees how the Iron Bull takes it without comment and squeezes Krem's shoulder afterwards. She sees Cullen walking the ramparts on late evenings, slow and methodical in his pacing, and she sends up a prayer to the Maker, asking him to grant their Commander the strength he needs. Sometimes she sees Master Dennet giving Blackwall suspicious looks, and one day she sees the warden feeding the halla sugar cubes when the horse master isn't looking. 

She likes this. Watching people, and seeing them. She wonders what other people see when they look at her.

-

"Is that Swords and Shields?"

Cassandra bites off a surprised squeak, catches it tight in her throat and attempts to stop the ridiculous pounding in her heart. She slams the book shut, quelling the almost irresistible urge to throw it as far away from her as possible, and looks up to meet the curious eyes of Scout Harding.

"I. That is. This is not..."

Cassandra trails off with a sigh. The Inquisitor already knows. Varric knows, and holds it gleefully over her head. The only thing more humiliating would be if Empress Celene herself had arrived without anyone's knowledge and managed to sneak up on her as she read. As it is, the likelihood of such a thing occurring is laughable, so she really isn't sure why she continues to hide this. Her embarrassment is childish, and while she isn't especially familiar with Scout Harding, she has never seemed the type to use such embarrassment against a person. Cassandra forces herself to unclench her jaw and meet Harding's slightly confused eyes.

"Yes. It is."

Harding smiles and Cassandra finds herself attempting to offer one in return. She's sure it looks terrible.

"I loved the third installment," the dwarf says happily, "especially the cliffhanger at the end, where the pirate queen leaves. So dramatic." 

She looks at Cassandra almost hopefully, as if she's wondering about the lady seeker's own opinion towards the book's ending (which is that it was incredibly thrilling and also terrifically frustrating; she'd tossed the book at her bedroom wall upon reading the last word) and for the life of her Cassandra can't think of a single word to say.

Unthwarted, Scout Harding takes another step forward and motions towards the book still clutched in Cassandra's hands.

"I read the first volume when I was much younger, I didn't realize then how terrible the writing really was and when I got older I couldn't seem to let them go. The characters are just so interesting."

Cassandra agrees completely. The characters are what first drew her in, the red headed knight with the tragic background, the chivalrous man she falls desperately in love with, and the colorful rogues that draw them into multiple adventures. She knew that they were based loosely around Varric's friends in Kirkwall, but discovering the inspiration for his books hadn't been enough to disuade her from loving the drama of it all. If anything, it had drawn her in more, imagining that the streets she'd walked through in her quest to find Hawke had been walked by that same brave guard captain.

Scout Harding gives her an almost teasing look, the light hitting her eyes in a way that makes them almost startlingly bright as if they'd been lit like a spark, pale like the sea glass they find on the Storm Coast sometimes. Her nose twitches a little as she smiles, her hands idly moving together in front of her.

"I hadn't expected you to enjoy them, Seeker," she says, her tone light and playful, not a touch of the dark ridicule that Cassandra was expecting. It's different from Trevelyn's gentle mockery, from Varric's disbelief, quickly followed by gleeful amusement. Cassandra finds that she doesn't mind it.

-

She is not used to having female friends. Though women are not dissuaded from entering the ranks of the Templars or the Seekers few do, and their numbers are filled instead with young men enraptured with the romantic stories of their childhood and the battle weathered masters who have seen countless members of their brethren fall. The few women among the Seekers are spread out across Thedas, and the rare times that Cassandra traveled with one of them were never conducive to conversation or the building of a friendship.

The girls in the cities look up at her with fear, just another cold soldier in cold armor with cold eyes, and the women usher their charges away and whisper warnings from the safety of their homes. The nobles treat every Seeker with the same barely masked irritation, as if they are a rat that has come where it is not wanted, but for Cassandra there is a special kind of disdain.

They watch her with a look of almost pity in their eyes, wondering what is it that drove a noble woman, so like themselves, to the violent life usually reserved for common men. The girls titter at her behind their masks and their fans, eyes heavy on her muscular frame, her scars, her cropped hair and her callused hands. She never feels quite so small as she does under their inspection, inadequate somehow in the face of her own gender.

Give her a sword and a shield and a clear challenge and she will greet it with a ready stance and an eager hand. But faced with condescending smiles and two faced remarks she balks like a newborn colt.

Her friendship with Leliana is still something of a mystery to her. The bard smiles and lies and spins tales to her advantage just like any other woman of the political court, better even, but there is a warmth sometimes in her smiles, and there is no senseless cruelty in her words. She looks at Cassandra like an equal, a fellow warrior and a fellow woman, and it is confusing but also comforting. Cassandra has few friends and Leliana is a loyal one, ruthless and also gentle when the need arises. 

This thing with Scout Harding is also confusing, but growing more and more welcome with each passing day. Harding stops by when they're both on a break from the field, asks her about her day, talks to her about books and battle, about the different aspects of combat with a bow compared to a blade. They talk about politics and the places they've traveled to, the different experiences they've had with the Inquisition, the different reactions they've seen in regards to their work. Eventually they grow comfortable enough to discuss the advisors and members of Trevelyan's inner circle. Cassandra expresses concern about Cole's presence and Scout Harding tells her about the rapidly decreasing mouse problem, about the turnips and the knives. Harding tells her about the Iron Bull's quiet struggle to accept his new Tal-Vashoth status, and Cassandra makes a point of seeking him out whenever she needs a drill partner. They both begin sneaking the halla sugar cubes, if only to ingrain the skittish animals with a bit of trust.

It's nice, Cassandra thinks. Having a friend who she can share parts of herself with. She has other friends, of course, more here in the Inquisition than she's ever had before.

Scout Harding, however, is special. Cassandra feels like she doesn't have to guard her smiles when the little rogue is around. It's been a long time since she's felt that way.

-

Dorian's heart is breaking, which is not something Cassandra ever expected to see.

The man laughs in the face of the demons and nightmares of the Fade. He turns his nose up at the dirt and mud of the countryside but never hesitates to get a little dirty if it means helping their cause. He's devilishly clever, sometimes enough to bring a smirk to her face, and she's found him to be an unexpectedly good drinking companion, especially when the drinking is evoked by letters from one's estranged family.

He's kinder than she first thought, and he had actually apologized to her for his initial judgement of the Seekers, a judgement that had been a bit too close to the mark, truth be told. So they've settled into a comfortable almost friendship where they drink together sometimes, he teases her about dresses and tries to convince her to let him style her hair, and she threatens to throw him into a forgotten dungeon and leave him there.

She knows that there's more to him than meets the eye, but she had never quite expected to see him like this, vulnerable and brittle, hurting in a way that she doesn't understand.

He hides it well, behind his flashing smiles and his ever present jokes, but the smiles tonight don't reach his eyes and the jokes seem to be nothing but a distraction to mask the fact that he's drunk enough ale to be swaying in his seat. 

Iron Bull steps in as Dorian reaches for another mug, placing a hand on his shoulder with a well meaning, "Alright little 'Vint, I think you've had more than your fill." This has happened often enough that Cassandra expects that to be the end of it.

Except that Dorian snarls at him, yanks away and barks at Bull not to touch him, and the next second seems to be on the verge of tears. Varric steps in then, says a few placating words in a tone too quiet for anyone else to hear, and leads the mage off to his quarters a minute later.

The Iron Bull sits across from Cassandra and the two watch as Dorian places his hand on the dwarf's shoulder to steady himself on the way out, Varric supporting him with an easiness that can only come from experience.

"Our Inquisitor," Bull says after a few minutes of silence, "is in love with romance. Not so much with love."

It's clear that the Qunari doesn't approve of how Trevelyn's handled the whole thing, and maybe if it were another day, maybe if she wasn't tired and a bit drunk herself, maybe if she hadn't just seen Dorian almost break down, she could find the words to defend him.

Instead she finishes her drink and excuses herself. Matters of the heart have never been her area of expertise.

-

The Inquisitor spares little time before moving on. Cassandra sees him flirting with Josephine on her way to the war room barely a week later, smiling at her with all the warmth in his eyes that he'd given Dorian the past few months. Josephine smiles back at him serenely, and Cassandra would be worried if she hadn't seen that same smile directed at countless nobles just before the Antivan dismissed them, albeit in a way that would have them thinking she'd given them the highest of compliments and also the better end of some bargain. Trevelyn leaves her in much the same way, smiling ruefully and wishing her a good day.

He brings a bouquet of flowers to Josephine the following morning. An apology, he says, in case there was any ill will between them. Josephine accepts the flowers courteously, assures him that they are on good terms with each other, and then asks him if he wouldn't mind her giving the flowers to someone who would appreciate them more.

"A thoughtful gift, truly Inquisitor, but one that would be enjoyed far more by a dear friend of ours. I'll keep a single rose," she says, "to remember your gift, and our continued camaraderie."

Camaraderie. A fine, complicated word that soothes Trelvelyn's wounded ego while ensuring he understands just where the line of their relationship is drawn.

He agrees, of course, as there are few who can say no to Josephine Montilnyet, and the remainder of the bouquet is delivered personally by Josephine to Scout Harding, who smiles with all the glee of a child and inhales their scent like she wants to drown herself in it.

"Why?" Cassandra asks her later, when they're alone together, going over reports in the comfort of Josephine's office. "Why did you reject the Inquisitor's advances? He's a good man, with a good heart. It cannot simply be because of his involvement with Dorian."

Josephine shakes her head slowly, long, delicate fingers tapping against a scribbled note on a piece of paper.

"No, that wasn't the reason. He is a good man, I will not dispute that. But Trevelyn is like a child with love. He gives it freely, but becomes bored when the first thrill wears away. He's not ready for what it really means. The length and the monotony of commitment. Maybe he will be one day, but not now. I've had enough of such things, myself."

Her smile is almost sad when she waves goodbye to Cassandra later that evening, pulling out a candle and another pile of reports. Cassandra hopes that she finds happiness one day, someone who will devote them self to her, who will love Josephine Montilynet the way she deserves to be loved.

-

There is a sign in the tavern, informing all who deign to read it that Scout Harding will be offering dance lessons to any who wish to take part.

"I thought it would be fun," the dwarf says morosely when Cassandra brings it up. They're sitting in the grass near the Seeker's favorite training spot, a basket containing bread, cheese, and several apples open between them. Cassandra sits cross legged, picking apart a roll and eating the pieces slowly as the sweat from her evening exercises cools on her skin. Harding sits nearby, looking slightly put out and perhaps a bit irritated as she plucks pieces of grass out of the ground and shreds them methodically. 

"It sounds like fun," Cassandra suggests carefully, confused by her friend's tone. "A good way to get everyone's mind off of things, to give them something to do."

"That's what I thought too," Harding says with more than a bit of exasperation, "but if I knew it would get this kind of a reaction I wouldn't have suggested it! Madame de Fer questioned me for nearly an hour about the types and styles I would be teaching, and then offered to co-instruct if we ever decided to "elevate ourselves" to the Orlesian dances they use in court. Iron Bull wanted to know if size differences between partners made things difficult, and also if I would object to him bringing all of the Chargers to the lessons. He's still trying to convince them, but Maker knows what I'll do if he succeeds. And Varric doesn't want to actually participate in the lessons, but he wanted to know if he could stay and take notes for "research", whatever that means. Not to mention the fact that quite a few mages and some of our Templar recruits have expressed interest, which is going to make things a bit awkward to say the least."

She flops back on the grass with a long sigh. The wind changes and blows a few loose, red gold hairs into her face. Cassandra brushes them away absently, stifling the laugh trying to climb it's way out of her mouth.

"You're adaptable. I'm sure everything will be fine." She give a one armed shrug, reaching for an apple. "Who knows, maybe it will help them work together instead of glaring at each other and muttering obscenities all the time."

"Maybe," Harding says, sounding more than a bit skeptical. "Or maybe someone will step on someone's toes and the evening will end in screaming and things going up in flame, like they tend to do around here."

Cassandra doesn't try to stop this laugh, a small, quiet thing, and she very studiously does not look at Scout Harding, who she is sure is staring at her.

"Whatever happens, it's a good thing you're doing. We all need something to distract us from this mess with Corypheus, something to look forward to at the end of the day. And I'm sure you'll handle everything smoothly. Do not worry yourself too much."

"Thank you, Cassandra," Scout Harding says, smiling up at her. Cassandra smiles back. 

Scout Harding is gifted at many things, one of which seems to be drawing smiles out of her, like a magician pulling scarves out of their sleeves. It's unusual, smiling this much, laughing even. She can't remember the last time she smiled so much. It's unusual, but as most things where Scout Harding is involved, Cassandra finds that she doesn't mind the unusual.

They sit outside in the warm grass until the sun sets, and they talk about dancing.

-

The next time they venture out of Skyhold and into the Hissing Wastes, Dorian comes with them. He's back to his usual self, flirting with anyone who'll give him the time of day and several who ignore him completely. His jokes and quips are just as cutting, just as amusing as ever, and if he avoids directing them at the Inquisitor instead of teasing like he normally would, the change is a subtle one. In spite of the rift that's appeared between the two men Dorian acts as he usually would, save for the urge he's developed to seek out company when they camp in the evenings. Considering that barely two weeks ago he would have been following Trevelyan into his tent as soon as the sun set, the urge is an understandable one. Cassandra simply wishes that Sera or the Iron Bull had accompanied them, rather than Cole and Solas, the former of whom Dorian appears to be avoiding at all costs, while the latter seems to be holding a grudge over some strange book throwing incident. Leaving only her, the aloof Seeker, hardly good company for a man recovering from heartbreak, no matter how well he hides it.

Dorian doesn't seem to mind her trepidation, however, simply taking a seat beside her near the campfire as she cleans her weapons and chattering on about the weather and the sand and what potion Solas has cooked up to keep his scalp from burning in the sun, because surely he doesn't have a barrier around his head constantly, and does she think that perhaps the Venatori picked this area to set up their camp simply to spite him? She grunts now and then, offers speculation on the ingredients Solas must use and if he would perhaps share the recipe, and rolls her eyes as the mage pours sand out of his boots and bemoans the state of his socks.

Dorian is still rambling on some minutes later when Scout Harding passes by on her way to report to the Inquisitor, smiling at Cassandra and giving a little wave. Cassandra nods back and continues oiling her armor, unconcerned until she realizes that Dorian has gone completely silent and is watching her contemplatively.

"What?" she asks, trying not to snap. She's not sure what the mage is thinking, but knowing Dorian it's not something she wants to hear.

"I thought for sure Madame de Fer was joking when she said that you and our lovely Scout Harding had grown close," he says, a spark back in his eyes, "but seeing it for myself, it's really quite remarkable. My dear Seeker, I didn't think you had it in you."

"Had what in me?" she asks, and this time she does snap. His eyes are laughing and she hates it, hates him for mocking this thing between herself and Harding, this thing that makes her happy. "Scout Harding and I are friends, she is... Special to me. I do not appreciate you or the Madame Enchanter twisting our closeness into something else for your own amusement."

Dorian regards her for a long moment, his eyes steady and thoughtful.

"I see. Forgive me," he says quietly. "I did not mean to assume. But Cassandra, if such a thing were true, whatever I said, it would not be out of amusement. It would be because of happiness for you."

He stands, brushing off the seat of his trousers with a look of distaste.

"And for what it's worth, I don't believe the Madame was amused either. She seemed to think it was cute. Make of that what you will."

He bids her a good night and heads off to his tent. Cassandra sits quietly beside the fire for a long time.

-

She has decided to ignore what Dorian said. Scout Harding is her friend, possibly her best friend, and she has no intention of ruining that friendship by even mentioning the idea that Madame de Fer and Dorian had dreamed up. Besides, she's quite aware of where her own interests lie, and it is with men. Tall men preferably, who will send her flowers and read poetry to her and woo her like the girls in the tales she loved as a child. She wants someone to make her feel precious, someone who will treat her with the delicacy she sees reserved for girls who are blooming into women, for the girls who wear skirts, who curtsy and giggle and smile so prettily. It embarrasses her, but Cassandra knows what she wants. She tries for a moment to image Scout Harding attempting to sweep her off her feet and nearly snorts at the image.

So they will continue to be friends, and Vivienne de Fer and Dorian Pavus can take their ridiculous assumptions somewhere else. She refuses to give them any more of her attention.

She wakes early the next morning, before any of the others despite her own late night. One of the scouts reported that the Wyverns could usually be found sleeping in the shade of a nearby outcrop at the peak of the day, and though Trevelyn had informed them all that they should take advantage and sleep in, Cassandra has been a warrior for too long to let herself waste hours that could be spent with training or preparations for battle. The camp is still and quiet and the breeze that gently shifts the sands around her is still chilled by the night, though in another hour or two she knows that the sun will bring the temperature back to the typical, nearly unbearable heat. For now, however, it is pleasant, and she stretches her arms over her head and breathes deeply as she looks around. Only the two soldiers standing guard are awake, and they nod at her in greeting.

Then her eyes drift up to the shaky looking scaffolding that some brave soul erected against the cliff face, and she sees the diminutive figure of a dwarf standing at the uppermost level. Auburn hair lights up in the first streaks of sunrise, and Cassandra lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

Her first instinct, despite her iron clad decision the night before, is to turn around and walk in the opposite direction. Which, upon consideration, she realizes is completely foolish. Nothing between herself and Scout Harding has changed. So what if the two gossipy mages wanted to spread a distasteful rumor. She has decided that it will not affect her, and she will not let it. Were this any other morning she would climb the scaffolding herself and greet her friend, so that is what she will do.

Cassandra ignores the weight that has seemed to settle itself heavily in her stomach and makes her way to the first ladder. By the time she's reached the top the air is already a little warmer and she's sweating a bit as she steps up next to Scout Harding. The dwarf is sketching the landscape, the dunes and ravines, making little checks that seem to represent the bunchings of rocks and hills that could hide Venatori encampments. Her brows are drawn together tightly, and the sweat beading on her forehead is too much for the early morning heat. Cassandra frowns.

"Didn't you tell me that you were afraid of heights?"

Scout Harding's lips twitch up into a small smile.

"And good morning to you as well, Seeker," she says. "And yes, I'm terrified of them."

Cassandra's frown only deepens.

"Then why are you up here?" she asks. "Surely one of the other scouts would be able to complete this task for you?"

"They could, yes, but what kind of scout would I be if I let my fear control my actions? If I couldn't bring myself to climb a tree and map an area I would have quit a long time ago," she says, eyes meeting Cassandra's with a spark of mischief. "All my fear does now is make me grab the branches a little harder than the average rogue."

Cassandra gives a little hum of understanding and rests her forearms against the slightly shaky railing, content to share the sunrise in quiet company. After a few minutes of silence, save for the chirp of insects and the scratching of Harding's pencil against the parchment, the dwarf looks up at her again.

"I can't say that I wouldn't mind a distraction, however. Can you tell me a tale?"

The Seeker stares at her questioningly.

"What kind of tale would you prefer?"

Harding shrugs.

"Oh, anything. Something exciting. You could tell me something about you," she says, that teasing lilt in her voice that Cassandra's become so fond of.

Cassandra looks back out at the landscape and Scout Harding goes back to her drawing, and they stand together in silence for so long that Harding starts a little when she begins to speak.

"There was a girl, once," she says, softly, haltingly. "whose family was gone. She had only her brother, and he... He died at the hands of a mage."

Cassandra isn't exactly sure why she's doing this, telling Scout Harding things that she's never told anyone else, not any of the other Seekers, not Leliana or Josephine or Cullen, not even the Inquisitor, though he's asked many times about her family and her past. She's never felt like she could tell anyone, hadn't felt like she could trust someone with this part of herself. But Scout Harding is special. Even with Dorian's words from the night before still giving her a strange sense of discomfort, she continues talking, spinning a tale about a girl who grew into a warrior, a girl who always wished for something sweeter. She settles into the telling of it easily enough after the first few pauses; it's a story she intimately familiar with, after all. She stands there, and she talks, and Scout Harding's pen scritch scratches across the parchment, slowing at a steady pace until she's stopped completely, eyes locked on the landscape as though she's not seeing any of it.

When she finally stops talking the sun is bright on the horizon, and the air around them is heavy with growing heat. There's something building in Cassandra's throat, something choking and unwelcome, and she swallows it tightly and turns to the other woman.

"I haven't told a story in such a long time. What did you think of it, Scout Harding?"

The dwarf gives a quiet, strangely brittle sounding laugh.

"It was wonderful, Seeker. Thank you for sharing it with me. And please, I think we're past the formalities. You may call me Lace."

Cassandra tests the name on her tongue. Lace Harding. It suits her.

"Thank you. I believe it goes without saying, but you are free to use my given name as well."

Lace looks away, her face reddening slightly in a blush, though Cassandra isn't quite sure why. They stand together in comfortable silence for a while longer, Cassandra studying the waking camp site while Lace puts a few finishing touches on her map.

"What happened to Regalyan?"

The question makes Cassandra's heart clench.

"He died," she says, and there's a hitch in her voice that she expected, even after all this time. "At the Conclave. He was there with the mages when it happened."

"You loved him," Lace says quietly, sympathy and grief in her eyes.

"Yes," Cassandra replies. "But I wonder sometimes, why I loved him. Maybe because I knew that I could never truly have him."

Lace Harding takes her hand and squeezes gently, and they stand in silence and watch the sun rise higher into the sky.

-

They're drunk and happy and they've just killed a dragon, and somehow the kiss that Lace Harding presses to her lips isn't much of a surprise.

"Oh," she stammers a moment later, eyes wide, pupils dark in the taverns shadows, hands fluttering. "I'm so, so sorry, Cassandra, really, it's just, with all the excitement and the drinking I must have gotten a bit carried away, really, I'm so sorry."

Cassandra waves it off, pats Scout Harding's arm and reassures her until the dwarf stops apologizing, then orders them both another round. They're celebrating tonight and she's happy in a way that makes her hands unclench and her breath come easier, in a way that buries itself, hot and solid in her gut, and she's not going to let a moment of awkwardness ruin this for all of them.

Later, when they all retire to their rooms and Cassandra lies awake in her bed, the kiss replays itself over and over. Soft lips, warm against her own. A small mouth. Enthusiastic, but not forceful. Cassandra closes her eyes and traces her fingers over her lips, delicately, carefully, as if pressing too hard would wipe away the kiss, wipe away the feel of it, the taste of it. 

She hasn't been kissed since the night Galyan left. It had been so cold, fresh snow on the ground, the moon high in the sky, and she hadn't been able to sleep knowing that in the morning he would leave with the rest of the mages while she continued on her way back to the Divine. He had come up behind her, loud and clumsy in the snow, and he'd wrapped his cloak around her, though he'd shivered more with it than she had without it. She had leaned into him then, wanted to hide under his cloak forever, wanted to ask him to promise her that he wouldn't leave. But she didn't ask him, and he didn't promise, and he'd kissed her in the moonlight and held her tightly in his arms.

Such a small thing, a kiss. Nothing grand or superfluous about it. Just a simple kind of devotion.

Cassandra inhales deeply and pulls her hand away from her lips. She pulls the blankets up over her head and tries not to think about dead mages who kissed her goodbye, or smiling dwarves who kissed her with joy. She tries very hard not to think at all about kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> so was i the only one who started inquisition and met scout harding and immediately fell 10000% in love? 
> 
> also can you tell i really wanted to romance cassandra with my female inquisitor? can you tell i'm still just a little bitter about it?


End file.
